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He laughs, and that sound is the only thing I focus on for the next hour.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Zayan Amin is standing in my doorway again, but this time he has a box of besan laddu in his hands.
‘You didn’t actually have to bring a gift, you know,’ I say as I let him in.
He toes off his shoes, eyes wandering over the flat as if it’s his first time being here. ‘Of course I did, Lightning Bug. They’re the ones you like, by the way, the pistachio ones. Have people already shown up?’
‘Lightning Bug?’
‘I’m testing out something new.’
I roll my eyes. ‘To answer your question, The Tragedies are here.’
To really show Zayan that I considered him a friend, before ending our call last night, I invited him to a pseudo-Desi Night – a more intimate one with just The Tragedies, Gibitah and my friends – the next day. That way, it wouldn’t overwhelm him, or make him feel like he was cornered by fans.
‘But your other friends are here too, right?’ he asks, and I take in the tension winding through him – the tightness in his shoulders, and the way he’s tugging his curls as he rakes his hand through them.
‘Are you nervous, Zayan?’ I ask, a little incredulous.
He looks at me, eyes darting away from the music-filled room down the hall and back to me. ‘Of course I’m nervous. You talk about them all the time – they’re like your family. And if they’re important to you, then their opinion is important to me.’
Something warm balloons in my chest at his words. Until he hurries on.
‘Of course,’ he hastily adds, ‘I don’t want them to hate me. I mean, that would look bad. We still need to convince them something is going on between us.’
Right. How could I forget?
I take too long to respond, and then notice that Zayan is fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up to his forearms.
‘Are you –’
‘Do you like what I’m wearing?’ He cuts me off, and it’s the sheer earnestness in his voice that stumps me.
I purposefully allow myself to look over him, the sharp line of his shoulders fitted into his metallic grey shirt and his well-tailored blue jeans. It’s nothing out of the –
‘Wait, are you wearing a kurta?’ I ask, now realizing that the shape of his shirt isn’t like a regular shirt. It cinches round his neck and is rounded at the hem, with three buttons going down his chest.
Zayan’s smile is blindingly boyish. ‘It took me forever to find this. I had to ask my stylist. I used to wear one like this all the time, back in Karachi.’
It’s a deceptive outfit – someone could very easily pass it off as a slightly long shirt if they wanted, but I don’t see this as Zayan trying to hide. I see this as his attempt to reclaim a little part of himself.
‘I love it,’ I say genuinely, and the way his eyes light up makes my abdomen tug with affection.
I need to squash this fast.
‘We – we should go inside. My friends are dying to meet you.’
I turn on my heel, leading Zayan to the living room, and for a moment before I open the door there is panic sluicing through my blood. I’ve never introduced anyone to my friends before – especially not someone they think I’m in a relationship with.
‘We’ve got this, Farah,’ Zayan murmurs from behind me. Confident as always.
‘We’ve got this,’ I echo and lead him in.
Instantly, we’re engulfed by sound and conversation. The Tragedies are peppered around the room, but it’s my flatmates that I’m looking out for. Amal comes first, followed by Owais, and on her way across the room, Amal tags Maha into their group.
‘Incoming,’ I mutter.
